


it won't end the same

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, First Kiss, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:25:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: It starts the way it always does.*Or, the one were it takes an argument to finally push Grantaire and Enjolras in the right direction.





	

_it won’t end the same_

 

 

 

 

It starts the way it always does.

 

Enjolras likes to credit himself on his ability to remain calm in the face of resistance. His friends will tell you that his pride and temper make him lack such ability at all. He doesn't quite understand where they're coming from.

 

Unless it's got to do with Grantaire.

 

Grantaire, the sarcastic and impatient member of their crew, who is the only person who can easily draw out the brash, impulsive, angry side of Enjolras.

 

He does this every meeting.

 

Objectively, Enjolras knows that Grantaire argues with him because someone has got to. He knows Grantaire brings up points that force him to better his argument. Objectively, Grantaire is the perfect addition to les Amis. But Enjolras _hates_ the objective.

 

He supposes it would be easier to ignore Grantaire if it weren't for the fact Enjolras is nearly positive he's never seen a more beautiful soul. He's heard people refer to Grantaire as 'unconventionally attractive, so to say'. He's never understood that. The more accurate description would be _infuriatingly attractive_. And he acts as though he doesn't _know_ it, which is perhaps the worst part.

 

To summarize, Enjolras wants to despise Grantaire. He wants to ask him why he even bothers coming to the meetings if he's got nothing to support. He wants to hate the cynic; how frightened he is at the notion that he might actually be starting to fall for him instead.

 

It had been a typical meeting for les Amis. The only difference was the Enjolras came in, already high strung from every other inconvenience that had happened that day—his bus broke down, his coffee got spilled, inconsiderate assholes made him late for his own meeting. He was already tense, which didn’t make anything else easier.

 

“So, our proud leader finally decided to show up?” retorts Grantaire. He’s got a wicked glint in his eye, one only his friends are able to identify as teasing. To anyone else, it would look like scorn. Enjolras _recognizes_ the jesting lilt in his tone and still, still it cuts too close. He turns on his heel instantly.

 

“And what’s it to you?” Enjolras snaps back. “As if you’d actually care if I didn’t make it. You’d be glad for the night off, I’m sure!”

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “A night off from what, exactly, Apollo?”

 

The nickname brings about a flare of white-hot anger than Enjolras can’t justify. It’s not the first time Grantaire has used it on him; hell, Grantaire isn’t even the first person to draw similarities. It never ceases to frustrate Enjolras, regardless of who says it.

 

Even if he has a slightly obnoxious crush on the person throwing about the nickname.

 

His own feelings for Grantaire just seem to make him tenser. Nothing makes _sense_ , and he comes to this meeting already on edge only to be taunted by the one person who never ceases to confuse the hell out of him. Seems entirely too plausible.

 

“Arguing with every damn phrase out of my mouth, for one,” Enjolras finally responds, scathing. He can tell it strikes a chord with everyone in the room; all of his friends shift uncomfortably as their eyes shift between Grantaire and Enjolras. “Since apparently nothing I say merits your approval.”

 

Grantaire scowls and turns his gaze downwards. “You’re right. I _would_ like a night off from arguing with you,” Grantaire says after a beat. “By all means, continue your _meeting_. I’ll mind my own business here in the back, same as always, but I’ll be sure to keep my mouth shut this time.”

 

Something in the way he says it makes Enjolras tense up. It affects him for the rest of the meeting. True to his word, Grantaire sits in the back and sourly drinks out of his glass and doesn’t look at Enjolras. It’s unsettling, and Enjolras is _frustrated_. The last thing he’d needed was to have the time reserved to be spent with his friends engaged in an argument. Yet, for the entire meeting, all he wants is one scathing remark even just to feel _normal_ again. Damn Grantaire, and damn his ability to constantly through Enjolras off track.

 

Enjolras thought he’d understood confusion when he’d first realized he had feelings for Grantaire. How constantly frustrated he is that he keeps running into more things to confound him.

 

Courfeyrac seems to pick up on his tense mood, if the way he slowly starts to take over the meeting is any indication. Enjolras must be doing worse than he’d thought, too; everyone else seems to relax a fraction when Enjolras finally takes a seat. Jehan reassuringly reaches out and twines their fingers through Enjolras’s. It helps, a bit.

 

He’s still frustrated.

 

Eventually Courfeyrac can’t even continue to keep the group entertained any longer, so he loudly announces that they’ll be moving the meeting to his flat where copious amounts of alcohol can be consumed. Everybody cheers at that and begins collecting their things to leave—Enjolras stays in his seat.

 

Courfeyrac comes by and squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder, drawing his attention away from his thoughts. “Whatever’s on your mind, you’ve got to let it go,” Courfeyrac advises quietly. “For what it’s worth, this isn’t doing either of you any good.”

 

Enjolras stiffens. “I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters. Courfeyrac gives him an unamused look and glances dramatically at Grantaire who—to Enjolras’s surprise—also hasn’t moved from his seat. Enjolras sulks. “I’ve just had a long day, Courf, I’ll be fine.”

 

Courfeyrac kisses his forehead. “You’re lying through your teeth but because we’re best friends, I’ll let it go,” he sings. “Text me if you’re coming tonight.”

 

Enjolras watches silently as Courfeyrac leaves. He’s among the last to shuffle out, alongside Joly who’d stayed to chat amicably with Grantaire. Enjolras closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“You’re not going to Courfeyrac’s?” asks Grantaire. Enjolras peers at him with one eye opened.

 

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I haven’t decided yet,” Enjolras finally says. Grantaire looks away, retreats back into his glass. Another rush of anger curls up in Enjolras’s belly. “Why do you even _come_?”

 

Grantaire’s brows raise dramatically, nearly disappearing underneath tendrils of curls on his forehead. “Excuse me?”

 

Enjolras gestures broadly. “The meetings,” he says sharply. “Why do you even bother coming? You never seem to enjoy yourself. Courfeyrac almost always invites people over to his flat afterwards, and everyone knows you’d rather spend your entire evening there than here. So why do you even bother coming to these meetings?”

 

Grantaire’s lips form a thin line. “I know where my alliances lie,” he replies, after a beat. “You may not see them, but I do.”

 

“Do you even support these causes?” Enjolras asks. His voice is starting to raise, frustration nearly bleeding out of every pore. “Do the things we fight for here even mean anything to you? Or are you just doing it because your friends do? What do you even _stand_ for?”

 

Grantaire’s sharp intake of breath is enough to make Enjolras falter. Grantaire has risen from his chair, now; he stares angrily at Enjolras with his hands clenched into fists. “What do I stand for?” he says. “Why, for you, o’ great Apollo.”

 

Enjolras flinches. “Stop calling me that,” he snaps.

 

“Why?” The glint in Grantaire’s eyes is malicious, teasing, angry—complex and unfairly beautiful. Enjolras bites down another sharp remark. “What complaint could you possibly have about being compared to a god of sun?”

 

Enjolras doesn’t get a chance to reply.

 

“Then again, anything I say or do, you’d manage to find a complaint about,” Grantaire mutters. Enjolras rises then, too. His hands grip the back of their chair he’d been sitting in, too tight.

 

“Is that all you think I do?” Enjolras retorts. “Find ways to argue with you? Spend my days making lists of every scathing remark I’ve ever wanted to say? Do you think I spend my hours _preparing_ to argue with you? That’s all I’m good for, I’m sure.”

 

Grantaire snorts. “You don't need preparation,” he bites back. “That’s why we _argue_. We’re both too quick-witted for our own good. Besides the point, even if that _isn’t_ how you spend your time, you sure do spend the majority of _our_ time together fighting me every damn chance you get.”

 

“And whose fault is that?” Enjolras demands. “You’re the one who comes in here time after time with countless rebuttals to my claims.”

 

Grantaire’s nostrils flare. They both know Enjolras is stretching the truth—as if there isn’t a single person who doesn’t know why Grantaire pushes them the way he does. He’s _helping_ , even if Enjolras is too proud and angry to admit it.

 

“If I don’t, who will?” Grantaire argues. “If I don’t come to the meetings and demand better, stronger answers from you, _who will_?”

 

“Do you even like _coming_ to the meetings?” Enjolras throws back. “You always sit in the back, you join your friends occasionally. Do you even _like_ being here?”

 

“Honestly?” Grantaire laughs. He sounds far too amused, a forced kind of laughter peeling through the air. He doesn’t follow with another response, and it just frustrates Enjolras more. Instead he just gestures at large to the room.

 

“This isn’t the only place to spend time with your friends!” Enjolras tells him. “Again, Courfeyrac always invites people over after these meetings are done! I’m sure you spend time with them outside of this meeting. Better to spend your nights away from here when you don’t care at all about the ideals we’re presenting.”

 

“It’s not the ideals I care about, it’s the company,” Grantaire shoots back. “You think I come because your little gang is trying to make a change? You aren’t the only group out there, pal. The world is a shitshow that isn’t going to change, but god forbid I spend time with my friends in a place we all enjoy. I don’t come for your _ideals_ , Apollo.”

 

 

“Why bother coming, then?” Enjolras shouts. “Why waste your time at meetings when you believe in nothing?”

 

“As if you don’t _know_ ,” Grantaire spits back. With a joly, Enjolras realizes Grantaire’s eyes are wide, terrified—a sharp contrast to the sharp bite of his tongue. “As if you’re really that _blind_.”

 

Enjolras recoils, stunned. “ _Excuse me_?”

 

Grantaire scoffs. “Don’t act like you don’t know,” he sneers. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? My god, everyone else has been able to piece it together. Don’t tell me you’ve been blinded by your own brightness, Apollo. How can you not see? You, the radiant sun; and I, poor Icarus.”

 

“Stop _saying_ that,” Enjolras snaps. “I’m not a sun!”

 

“And you still don’t get it!” Grantaire roars back. “I wear my heart on my sleeve and you’re a damn fool who is too selfish to see it! You’re _my_ goddamn sun, don’t you understand that? You’re so far gone on fighting the fight and winning your own battles that you’ve neglected to notice that I’m the damn fool who’d follow you into any battle—”

 

Enjolras surges forward. He’s overestimated the distance between them and he slams into Grantaire harder than he’d meant to. “Don’t tell me where my alliances lie!” he shouts. “You haven’t any clue. You think you know me but you _don’t_!”

 

Grantaire shoves at his chest. “That’s the _point_ ,” he sneers. “How foolish of me, to be willing to follow you wherever you may go when I _know_ that I’ve got no true idea which direction your heart is pointing.”

 

“Why do you care about my heart?”

 

“You goddamn idiot,” Grantaire hisses. He reaches out and grabs onto Enjolras’s shirt, tugging him closer. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

 

Enjolras doesn’t give him the chance.

  
Messily, he kisses Grantaire. His hands move of their own accord, finding their way into Grantaire’s hair and twining in the curls. Grantaire gasps, beautifully, deliciously—his own hands move from grasping Enjolras’s shirt to tugging on his hips. Enjolras bites at Grantaire’s bottom lip at the same time that Grantaire grinds up, and they both let out a sharp breath at the sensation.

 

Grantaire kisses like he argues, teasing and forceful and with purpose. Enjolras cannot get enough, can’t pull Grantaire any closer though he tries, tugging on Grantaire’s hair. Brashly, Grantaire runs his tongue along Enjolras’s lip, and in a particularly tactful move deepens the kiss when Enjolras gasps again. His hands have moved from Enjolras’s hips to his ass, to his thighs—he surprises Enjolras when he moves to lift Enjolras up, wrapping his legs around Grantaire’s waist. They’re too far, too far it seems as Grantaire moves them, but eventually in between kisses Enjolras feels the table behind him. He barely has time to prepare himself before Grantaire is laying him down on it and moving to hover above him.

 

The warm weight of Grantaire, the feeling of his soft hair in Enjolras’s fingers, the persistent hardness pressing against Enjolras’s thigh; it’s almost too much, unreal. Grantaire is still making quick work of tearing Enjolras apart with his lips and tongue, and Enjolras can’t really complain. They’ve grown accustom to ripping into each other with their words. Enjolras quite likes this turn of events.

 

“You goddamn idiot,” Grantaire repeats, panting, as he trails kisses along Enjolras’s collarbone. Enjolras hisses when Grantaire latches onto a particularly tender spot, and his hips buck up against Grantaire on their own accord. “It took a fucking fight for you to finally realize?”

 

“You can’t stop arguing with me, _fuck_ ,” Enjolras whines, “for—oh, god—one goddamn second, can you? I guess— _jesus christ_ —I should have—”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Grantaire growls. The noise vibrates straight through Enjolras, and he shivers. “Do you ever shut up?”

 

“Make me,” Enjolras challenges. Grantaire complies without further instruction. Enjolras shifts so that Grantaire is settled in between his legs, Enjolras’s knees bracketed on either side of his hips. He finds purchase grabbing onto Grantaire’s shirt. It doesn’t take him long to realize that whatever way he tugs, Grantaire follows easily enough. Grantaire kisses him desperately; their lips and tongues move against each other in the most beautiful of dances. It’s a bit messy, teeth knocking together and both men being a bit too overeager from time to time. But they find their rhythm—Grantaire takes control of the kisses, heated and languid and everything in between, and Enjolras uses everything else in his disposal to drive Grantaire insane. He moves his hips against Grantaire, both groaning at the friction. He trails his hands up Grantaire’s sides, scratches across his back, drags the blunt edges of his nails across Grantaire’s chest. Every move he makes causes Grantaire to gasp a little heavier. Every trick Enjolras pulls, Grantaire matches—he kisses deep, he sucks and nips at a spot on Enjolras’s neck, he tugs on the loose curls at the nape of Enjolras’s neck.

 

Even in kissing, they find themselves fighting, matching each other’s dirty tricks with tricks of their own. It’s a different kind of arguing, one that Enjolras hadn’t expected but is _desperately_ hoping to continue. So long of fighting with Grantaire when they could have been doing _this_. He almost laughs at the thought.

 

“If this,” he pants, “is how we are going to argue from now on…”

 

Grantaire slides Enjolras’s shirt up languidly and traces his tongue across his nipple. Enjolras gasps, forgets what he meant to say. “Don’t tell me you’ve found another thing to complain about,” he says wickedly. His breath is hot where it dances along Enjolras’s chest.

 

“Shut _up_ ,” Enjolras gasps out.

 

Grantaire does just that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_bonus_ :

 

Courfeyrac frowns at his phone in dismay. It’s been over an hour and he _still_ hasn’t heard from Enjolras. Something was wrong, at the Musain today. It didn’t take a genius to figure out, even if Courfeyrac did consider himself a genius when it came to all things Enjolras. They’d been best friends for as long as he can remember; he definitely earned his title of expert.

 

**To: enj**

[9:02] if you’re not coming its rly not a big deal but ?? lmk?? like i just need to know you're okay………

 

When he doesn’t get an immediate response, he stands dramatically. Well, he sways as he stands, a little bit tipsy from the alcohol he’s already had. Combeferre reaches out to steady him and looks up at him through heavy, lidded eyes. “Where’re you going,” he mutters, and he’s a bit more drunk than Courfeyrac.

 

“Something’s _wrong_ ,” Courfeyrac insists. “I can feel it in my best-friend-senses. Enj had a bad day and he hasn’t texted me. What if he’s _moping_ somewhere and I’m just letting him while I’m off getting drunk? I’m a horrible best friend.”

 

“You’re a paranoid drunk,” Combeferre says easily. “Enjolras is fine, I’m sure. Sit back down, enjoy yourself.”

 

“Will you come with me to the Musain?” Courfeyrac begs. “ _Please_ , what if he’s still there, all mopey and sad because his two best friends didn’t come rescue him? He stays there _so_ late, all the time, because he’s weird. I bet he’s still there. We have to _rescue_ him.”

 

Combeferre sighs. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re drunk,” he says, and Courfeyrac happily takes his hands to help him stand.

 

“And _you’re_ getting lucky tonight,” he says decidedly. Combeferre grins and smacks Courfeyrac’s ass as he starts to walk away.

 

They take a cab to the Musain, despite the fact that it isn’t that far of a walk. Courfeyrac knows he’s probably too far drunk to handle a walk, especially when most people have retreated to their beds. He's a loud drunk after all. Combeferre holds his hand in the cab and Courfeyrac’s thoughts keep turning back to things he’d like to _do_ to Combeferre right now. He has to snap himself out of it at least seven times on the five minute drive.

 

Courfeyrac keeps their hands intertwined when they finally reach the Musain, and he’s barreling into the door with Combeferre trailing behind him without a second thought. For a moment, they hesitate on the first floor. Above, they can hear faint voices.

 

“He’s not alone?” Courfeyrac says, confused. “Oh my god, Grantaire wasn’t at my flat either. They probably got in another fight, they’re fighting up there!”

 

Combeferre is staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Courfeyrac has the fleeting thought that maybe they were too drunk to come at all. He regrets thinking he was only tipsy moments ago. “I…don’t think they’re fighting,” Combeferre solemnly replies. The corner of his mouth is twitching upwards.

 

Courfeyrac frowns at him. “You don’t think—”

 

He’s cut off by the distinctive sounds of a crash from upstairs, glass shattering and loud curses muffled by the floor in between them. “Or maybe they were fighting,” Combeferre groans, swearing under his breath. Courfeyrac grabs his hand again and drags him up the stairs hurriedly. He doesn’t even hesitate before barging through the door.

 

“Enjolras!” he’s already saying. The rest of his sentence dies in his throat when he takes in the scene before him. “Oh. Not fighting. We’re—going to go. Um.”

 

Combeferre is cackling as Courfeyrac yet again drags him, this time away from the room. Courfeyrac might accidentally slam the door behind him; he can’t quite tell over Combeferre’s guffaws. “Definitely not fighting,” he snickers.

 

Courfeyrac, usually charmed by his boyfriend’s behavior when drunk, shakes his head and joins in with giggles of his own. “Since they were both half-dressed and wrecked-looking, I’m going to have to agree with you,” he laughs. Combeferre nearly falls over in his laughter.

 

“And you thought something was _wrong_!” he cackles.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://feuillyys.tumblr.com) crying abt les mis or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tannscotts) posting about various things.
> 
>  
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


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